


We require certain skills

by AeeDee



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have this annoying tendency to get wrapped up in characters that are very minor in the canon. This feels a lot like a prequel, like the start of something I should work on. </p><p>Lyrics from The Naked and Famous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We require certain skills

It wasn’t always like this.

I’m watching you write another fucking note. Even though I told you it’s pointless. Even though I told you it’s a big, giant waste of time. A man with so few responsibilities. But you insist on cataloging them all.

You make lists of your few achievements and duties. You report every little instruction and comment and call. You file your paperwork meticulously, you sit upright and you stare straight ahead as you organize the same file over and over.

Drives me crazy. You drive me crazy.

It didn’t used to be like this.

I used to feel annoyance. That was easier.

Because you write these fucking notes and it doesn’t matter how many of them I throw away. If I tease you, no matter what I say, it changes nothing. You protest—sometimes you whine—you fuss and then you’re clicking that damn ink pen and rewriting the same damn note all over again, as if it’s too sacred to let it go to waste. Your single duty, and maybe a second one if it’s a busy afternoon. Because it’s just too damn important to let it go, isn’t it?

I used to feel annoyance, because it was easier than anything else. Easier to view you as irritating, annoying, loud and troublesome; I’d cover my ears with my hands and pretend I was anywhere but stuck in an office with such an immature, grown-up child of a person. I wasted away the time building the same castle of cards, doodling in the margins of your notes to see if it’d tick you off. Sometimes I’d arrange those cards on your desk and wait to see if you’d react; how you’d react, exactly.

It would irritate me—it’d irritate me so damn bad—to see you sigh with some exasperation and attempt to work around the obstacle I’d left in your path, as if the single foot of clean desk space was enough for you to get everything done.

You never ignored me, but you downplayed everything I did. You’d react with an outburst, maybe give some hurt response and then you’d go along with your business, back to your upbeat mood as if I hadn’t just said something awful to you. As if I hadn’t just hurt your feelings, when we both fucking know that I did. That I would, several times over. I’d laugh at your wounded pride, but I couldn’t even enjoy it, because I never got the reaction I wanted. Never got the retaliation, the judgment, the resentment. Nothing but a quick deflection, an awkwardly tense moment and then it’d pass over like we were good old friends.

I spend a lot of time, observing. Watching, and thinking. You’re so tightly wound; tense and prepared. And when the world moves and shifts in the slightest you’re quick to leap, to fuss, to whine; quick to revert to being that anxious child, wide-eyed and shaking and unsteady until it passes over. You cling to my words as if you need the reassurance, but it’s not advice you’re looking for; it’s sympathy to ease your fear.

But you never lose your composure with me. You protest and you complain and then you let it go, just like that. Simple as pie.

Why did you never resent me. Why did you never hate me, loathe me, roll your eyes and groan the way I would about you. Why did you never hold it against me, when anyone else would, when anybody with half a sense of self-preservation would realize that I was juvenile, easily entertained and taking advantage. That I was making a joke out of you and only you. That you were my only target, day in and day out.

I’d assemble a house of cards on your desk and I’d trash your notes and I’d intentionally hide the things you left on your desk, like that ink pen you lost and never found, the one your father gave you before he died. (I still have it; it’s in my drawer.)

I resented you.

You know?

It wasn’t like this before.

I’m watching you write another damn note and I’m wondering what it says. I could probably guess. I sometimes get the feeling I know your schedule better than you do. Likely. God knows I’ve sat here and listened and thought about it and dwelled on it enough for your days to blur and bleed into my own in my head. It’s not about my schedule versus yours anymore; it’s ours.

You go do this, so I will go do that. You do that, so I will do this. I respond and react to what you do, to where you go, to how you move. I watch and I listen and I learn and when you almost catch on—when you almost catch me staring, watching, thinking—I turn away and I sink back into my latest distraction.

The house of cards that I’ll never finish, because I purposefully collapse it every other day or so. The puzzle I left unsolved, because I hid a few of the pieces and then decided to throw them away. The bottle of wine I never actually drink, that’s stashed beneath the desk. The half-finished graffiti on its legs. That glass of wine I’ll never actually drink. It just sits and at the end of the day I toss it down the sink and pour myself a new one the next morning.

My life is defined by incomplete projects, sent signals that aren’t going anywhere. Moments of mischief and jokes that don’t give me the reaction I want, or the satisfaction. I hurt you, and it doesn’t bring me joy. I tease you, and you barely notice. You barely realize.

Do you even think about it.

I see so many open doors. Lingering moments. Chances I don’t take. Instances when I could’ve given you a compliment instead, when I could’ve sneaked small notes of affection and fondness in with the doodles scribbled in your notes. Occasions when I could’ve slipped you a glass of wine and invited you out to dinner as friends, following one of our lighter exchanges. Like that time I fixed your computer and you stood up and embraced me, I could’ve reached out with even just one arm and hugged you back.

All I had to do was embrace you back.

But my life is defined by these half-thought moments. Lost chances. Moments when I could’ve helped you to see me in a different light. If you see me at all. If you see anything beyond the mischief and the trouble and the stress and the belittling. If you care to think of me as a human being, as a person, as a companion that’s been here through thick and thin and studied and learned and somehow started to appreciate every little thing about you.

All I have to do is embrace you back. Return the things I take. Respect the things you create. Show you some kindness. Share a laugh with you, and not against you. Encourage your antics just a bit, and maybe be less of a stick in the mud over the few times you loosen up and decide to have some fun.

God, I just.

I want to be so much for you. To be different than what I am, than how I’ve been.

But I resented you.

You know that?

The thought of having to endure hours stuck in that office with you would drive me up a wall. I’d drag my feet to work each morning, because I knew I’d have to spend the day listening to you write, fuss, complain, sing loopy songs and do stupid dances and answer calls and whine about it every time I tried to make a joke on your behalf.

I didn’t know any other way to be. I didn’t know how else to behave, because I’m just a grown up child. You’re the sort of immature kid that panics when the lights go out, and I’m the rude brat that’ll run my fingers up the back of your neck and make you think it’s a ghost.

I hated you, but I never actually did. You know what I mean?

Do you get that?

Because I didn’t get it. Not really.

Not until right now.

I’m watching you write another damn pointless note and I’m realizing that I know what it says, because I always know, these days. I know your schedule better than my own. I hear all of your calls, I eavesdrop on your conversations, I read your notes and precious memos and I observe you when you’re nervous, when you’re stressed, when you’re frustrated, when you’re concerned.

And more than anything I just want to embrace you, to sneak an arm around you and pull you closer and reassure you that it’s fine, you’re gonna be fine, everything is fine and you don’t need to write down all of this shit because I’ll remember it for you, the way I always do. I can remind you, the way that I always do, because remembering your shit is as easy as breathing. I see and I hear and so I am aware, just like that, it’s that simple.

But I treated you like a confused, spiteful child and I’m sorry.

I will always be sorry, deep down.

Because we lost time. I wasted time. I wasted days and hours laughing at you, making you upset, bothering you, annoying you, disappointing you when I could’ve been lifting your mood and convincing you that yes, I am actually a funny guy—even when you’re not the subject of my jokes—and yes, I do think your antics are endearing and yes, we could spend time together outside of this office because yes, we do have common interests, like those crossword puzzles you work on during your lunch break or the movies you sometimes mention when you arrive in the morning, eager to strike up some tidbit of a conversation with me before the work day moves into full swing.

Talk to me about your movies. Tell me more about your mother’s voice mail messages, and the way your brother forgot to invite you to his wedding. Tell me about that case that’s making you uneasy, and we can talk about these conspiracies in hushed whispers and we can sit a little closer and I’ll even find you a proper filing cabinet so you can worry less about organizing your notes.

And maybe once—at least once—I can make you laugh, genuinely laugh, and not just the embarrassed kind you sometimes give to keep me from teasing you mercilessly.

I want to make you laugh so badly.

Fuck, I.

You don’t deserve me, but I wish you did. Because maybe then I’d feel like less of a rotten person. But we’re not on the same level, and I know that.

You’re creative and you’re intelligent and you’re dedicated and you’re loyal and you’re honest. You’re everything I’ve tried and failed to be.

But you don’t know that—how would you—because I never told you. I don’t tell you what I see. I don’t tell you what I know. Words don’t come out and I lock up and I act like some other stupid distraction has got my attention because it’s too hard to speak to you when I get this feeling, this feeling like the next thing I say might be a bit too personal, like it might accidentally push me across the line.

Like it might set me down in front of you, like you might accidentally notice me. Like you might see me for what I am. We can’t have that, can we.

So I joke and I tease and I roll my eyes and I pray that somehow, by doing things the exact same every damn day, that maybe today, or tomorrow, something will magically be different.

Maybe I’ll trip myself up. Maybe I’ll stumble. Maybe I’ll trip over my own feet and in between the graffiti on your notes I might just write something that means more, something you have to think about, like a date and time for an evening out.

Maybe this number—yes, that number you’re looking at right now, go ahead and check it—is the number to a local restaurant and maybe you’ll want to make sure you iron your suit for the occasion. Even if I act oblivious when you ask, even if I say I don’t know what you’re talking about, but there’s no harm in going anyway, is there? And we can spend the evening pretending we’re on some sort of stakeout when really I just wanted to take the time and sit next to you for a few hours without these several feet between us, without the pressures of paperwork and cameras and notes and organization and bosses giving lectures and strict orders if we slip up even just a bit.

You may think you’re still on the clock, but that’s okay. Because I’m a piece of shit and I can’t bring myself to ask you out without lying through my teeth, and you being just a bit uneasy is okay because I know how you are, I know how you think, and—even if l say I’m just acting to keep up appearances—for once I can pretend to be your friend and soothe your nerves.

For once I’ll mean what I say.

And maybe when you start to get tired I can encourage you to lean into me and we can pretend like we’re not a couple of annoying kids and we can pretend we’re in something that functions like a normal friendship. Where we respect each other and lean on each other and embrace and maybe kiss sometimes and it’s not a big deal because that’s the kind of funny thing you can do when you really love the guy.

Or maybe I’m just kidding myself, and you’ll just come to know and understand that I’m a piece of shit.

God.

God help me.

One day I will stop being a miserable piece of shit but that day is not-

Wait…

No, that day is not today.

-

_We're only young and naive still. We require certain skills._  


_The mood it changes like the wind; hard to control when it begins._

_The bittersweet between my teeth, trying to find the in-betweens._  
_Fall back in love eventually, yeah yeah yeah yeah._


End file.
